


All Things Go

by thekingofcarrotflowers



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Break Up, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Getting Back Together, Hurt/Comfort, Internal Conflict, M/M, Mistakes, Near Death Experiences, Regret
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2015-09-11
Packaged: 2018-04-20 04:07:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4772909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thekingofcarrotflowers/pseuds/thekingofcarrotflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the Iron Bull has to choose between the Qun and his Chargers, he makes a decision he quickly comes to regret. Thankfully, Dorian Pavus was there to keep the boys alive, but it still might mean Bull loses everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Things Go

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theladylily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theladylily/gifts).



> Hi! Finally got this lovely prompt from theladylily on Tumblr and I'm finally filling it: 
> 
> "Adoribull Sunday Prompt – Sad Adoribull – Dalish gets sick before going to the Storm Coast, and since is not going to Storm Coast with the Inquisitor and he has grown fond of the Charges, so Dorian offers to take her place and assist them, without Bull and the Inquisitor knowing."
> 
> If you're worried about what's going to happen, take a glance at the tags ;)

Dorian pushed hard against Bull’s chest, the man’s face flushed with anger. Bull swayed slightly, but would only be moved if he allowed it, and he almost felt like giving Dorian the satisfaction of knocking him over.

  
“You chose the Qun over your men!” Dorian bellowed, eyes bright with tears he was holding back, lip curled up in a snarl that showed his flawless teeth. And the Bull was so _tired_. He was tired of fighting, against the Qun and against the madness in his head and against everything the others expected him to be. Despite being the qunari equivalent of a wall, he was weak and scared and small, but he couldn’t show that, couldn’t let Dorian or Gatt or the others see. He breathed out, measured and even, to keep his head. Dorian wouldn’t be there to comfort and sooth like he was after nightmares of Seheron, wouldn’t be there to ease away the hurt drumming through his veins. He was pretty sure Dorian wouldn’t be around much at all after today.

  
“The boys are fine, thanks to you,” Bull answered calmly, not betraying the war that was raging behind his dull gray eye. His mind was a tangle of thoughts, rising up to a steady drone and thump of guilt and disappointment and pain. He knew he’d betrayed his men, chose to stay true to the Qun. He wasn’t a Tal-Vashoth this way, wouldn’t be like all those mindless savages he’d spent so much of his life taking out, but wasn’t fucking over what little family he had a pretty fucking mad thing to have done?

  
If Dorian hadn’t been there, his Chargers would have gone down back on the hill. He was grateful for Dorian sneaking into their ranks and coming along without asking either him or the Inquisitor. The alternative wasn’t something Bull wanted to think about. He thought he’d come to terms with what not sounding the retreat meant, had become resigned to his fate as he watched the Venatori swarm up the hill, only to find them greeted by walls of flames and swirling purple magic. In that moment he knew he made a mistake, but it was too late. He had chosen the Qun, the people who had raised him and then abandoned him to the south when they knew there was no other answer besides that or declaring him Tal-Vashoth, over his boys who accepted him for what he was, not what everyone expected him to be. The Chargers came back in one piece, Grim’s leg twisted at an unnatural angle, Skinner cradling a mangled arm, Dorian drained and beyond exhausted, but they were alive, and Bull had never felt so relieved.

  
“And if I hadn’t been there? You were ready to let them all die!” Dorian yelled, and Bull could feel the heat around Dorian’s balled fists as he thumped at his chest. It hurt a bit, stinging his thick hide, and he gave Dorian the satisfaction of a wince when the mage’s hand dug into his collarbone. It was a small pain compared to everything else, a bee sting among a plethora of bloody wounds, “They trusted you! Fuck, I think they still do, and I bloody well don’t know why!”

  
“They’re soldiers. They understand risk,” Bull stated calmly, like it was a fact. He supposed it was. The group had stayed on that hill, knowing it was likely they wouldn’t make it through a battle with the Venatori. Krem had touched his arm when they first met up back at camp, though his lieutenant had avoided him since. It shot something cold down his spine, which was only deepened by the sneer that Dorian wore on his face, fire and anger and utter disappointment, eyes burning and bright. He really fucked this all up.

  
“Well, I hope you find your purpose in the Qun again, Hissrad,” Dorian spat, crossing his arms and turning away. Bull watched him go, the man a flurry of seafoam silk and bronze buckles flashing dangerously in the campfire. Adaar reached out for Dorian, and he gracefully ducked under her arm. The others glanced towards Bull, not hiding the fact that everyone had heard the exchange, and no one came over to try to comfort Bull. He wasn’t sure if it was because they knew it would have been empty, a hollow attempt at something meaningful, or if he had lost the trust of his boys, despite what Dorian said, and fuck, that thought hurt more than he thought it would.

 

\---

  
  
The journey back to Skyhold was tense, Gatt traveling with them and shooting everyone smug looks. Bull had made his choice, had affirmed to Gatt that he held the Qun above everything else, and had lost the trust he’d worked so hard to gain from the Tevinter mage, might have lost everyone else’s trust, too. Sera kept giving him dirty looks and muttering things under her breath, Adaar just looked _scared_ , and the Chargers all looked as tired as he felt. Dorian was avoiding everyone except Sera like the plague, bringing up the rear of the party as they traveled, eating his meals alone at the edge of camp, ignoring Skinner and Krem’s invitations to drink and let off some steam. He even shied away from Adaar, who up until this point had been unwaveringly fond of, and instead walked hip-to-hip with the squirrelly elf, murmuring to her and occasionally giving a sharp laugh in reply to something she said. Bull found himself alone most of the time as well, aside from Gatt, who trailed him like a shadow and was constantly spouting reassurances that he had done the right thing. It’d been a set-up all along, Bull knew, and he’d fallen into the trap so easily. The sight of Gatt’s face, which had been a strange comfort from home days before, made him feel ill.

  
Dorian didn’t make anymore appearances in Bull’s room after the Storm Coast. He was lucky to get a glimpse of him fleetingly in the tavern when the man bought a bottle of whiskey or wine to take back to his quarters. Bull hoped he wasn’t spending all his time drinking himself into a stupor and spending sleepless nights in he library, like he had in the early days of the Inquisition before people got to know him. The sight of him now made Bull’s chest hurt, Dorian looking tired and sad during these brief encounters, or infuriated when he caught Bull looking his direction. He’d never wanted to be added to the list of men who had hurt and betrayed Dorian, yet here they were, Dorian avoiding him as best he could, Bull trying to convince himself he did what was necessary.  

  
He tried not to let his mind linger on Dorian much, but too many things held memories of the man. The smell of flowers from the garden that Dorian used in his potions and lotions still clung to his sheets, and even when Bull washed most of them, he kept the pillowcase that smelt of Dorian’s hair. There was still a collection of books next to Bull’s bed, the mage having grown slowly more comfortable lingering in Bull’s room, and he left them untouched, knowing better than to set foot in the library, which was decidedly Dorian’s space. When the Inquisitor fianlly took Dorian on a mission once again, months after the incident, Bull found himself grateful that maybe Dorian and Adaar had patched things up again. It had been another guilt he’d been carrying with him, knowing the decisions on the Storm Coast had put a hitch in their friendship. Even the piss poor excuse for ale in the tavern, which Dorian had scrunched his nose up at but drank pitchers and pitchers of, carried the memory of nights spent with the man, feeling happy and safe and at peace.

  
For a long while, the Chargers remained wary of him. They weren’t as jovial when he was with them in the tavern. They retired earlier, not quite hitting that state of buzzed, comfortable bliss that they had before this whole mess. They tried not to get paired with Bull during training, pairing up quickly, leaving whoever had slept in a little too late or had somehow got on someone’s bad side that morning to square off with Bull. He couldn’t blame them, so it let it be for now. He hadn’t blown the horn, had let Gatt convince him that the Qun was his priority, and Adaar had went along with it because she was young and confused and nothing scared her as much as the Qun and their Arvaarads. He couldn’t blame her, either, only blamed himself for his mistakes that might lose him everything he held dear. Dorian was gone, his men were slipping through his fingers, and even the other members of the Inner Circle seemed more leery of him than they had before. It served him right.

 

\---

  
  
“Boss. Can we talk?” Bull asked, catching Adaar as they left a meeting with Josephine. She nodded, gesturing towards her quarters. He followed, face grim and set. He really wasn’t sure what the final straw was — maybe it’d been an offhand comment Vivienne had made during their last outing about trust that still gnawed at him, or that Skinner had paired up with one of Cullen’s boys instead of him when they were the only two people left.

  
Adaar headed into her sitting space, everything simple and sturdy in cool blues and soft grays. She’d grown into her position more and more with each day, Storm Coast and everything in-between weighting on her as she tried to save the damned world when she was still so green. She was still growing into her impressive set of horns, and they might not be in fully for a year or two. Her face was still plump and round like a child. It shouldn’t make him so damn sad, but she was just a kid. The Qun was different, pushing people into their places as soon as they were ready, favoring skill and willingness to learn over age, but Adaar was still just a kid, and here she was, closing rifts with her hand, fighting ancient Magisters and their pet dragons because she’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Fuck, it wasn’t right.

  
“I … can’t be Hirrsad,” he breathed out, fear evident in his tone for once. He had thought this over, looked at it from all sides, and he just couldn’t fucking do it, “I haven’t been Hissrad for a long time, haven’t been part of the Qun for longer than that. Fuck, I’ve been kidding myself this whole time.” He’d realized it was true when he’d turned down a number of serving girls, his heart aching for the dark-haired man who once graced his bed frequently not months prior. He would do anything to get Dorian back, and to get his boys back, and he knew — this was real, this was right, this was where he was needed.

  
Adaar smiled, soft and sad, “It wasn’t just you.” He wasn’t surprised she carried around her share of guilt about everything, but he didn’t want that.

  
“Suppose not, but that doesn’t matter. What matter is that I’m the Iron Bull, and whatever happens, whatever shit goes down, this is where I want to be.”

  
Adaar threw her arms around Bull’s waist, arms not quite long enough to encircle him. She hugged tightly, and Bull placed his chin on the top of her head, breathing out slow and steady and willing the tears he felt stinging his eye not to fall.

  
“Good,” Adaar murmured into his chest, “You’re a good man, Bull. Even good men can make some shitty decisions.”

  
Bull snorted, “You know this means the alliance is fucked, right? I’ll send in my last report, they send Gatt back to intimidate you a bit and break the ties, maybe send a few assassins our way?”

  
Adaar shrugged slightly, “I’m not scared of them anymore.” He knew it wasn’t entirely true because her voice sounded so small. She’d been relatively unshaken by an avalanche and nearly dying more times than he could count on his fingers _and_ toes, but she was scared of the Qun and their collars and their shackles. Bull’s heart lurched again, and he patted her back gently. He’d keep her safe, keep everyone safe, if it was the last thing he did.

 

\---

  
  
The letters were sent, Gatt came and went. Bull had been there, in the corner of the war room, just in case. When Gatt had lashed out and Adaar flinched back from the man, Cullen had moved easily between Adaar and the elf, easily stepping into his role of Commander to give the firm order for him to ‘Get out, or Maker help me—” Bull hadn’t been able to hold back the growl low in his throat, and Gatt shot him a look of loathing, but it didn’t hurt so much coming from him as it had from a certain mage. Lelianna had looked smugly impressed, and Josephine reassured them that it would be no great loss. Bull knew she was sugar-coating things. If the Qun had the mind to, they could make the Inquisiton’s world a living hell, but Bull doubted they would now. Adaar and he Inquisition were serving a purpose, and until that was fulfilled, they were needed. Besides, Bull would be there to stop them if that time came.

  
Once Bull announced the news to his Chargers, things were a little easier. While they still seemed hesitant with him, slow to accept what he said completely, they were back to letting Bull buy all of their rounds, and Krem even chose Bull for his sparring partner willingly. A few weeks later, and things felt the same with them, laughing easily and drinking too much and making fools out of each other. Still, there was no sign of Dorian, besides those brief glimpses in the dining hall or in the window of his alcove. Adaar kept them out of the lineup together, and Bull suspected she knew more about Dorian’s mindset towards him than she let on if the sad, guilty looks she flashed Bull on the rare occasion the three of them were in the same vicinity meant anything.

  
They weeks had a certain edge to them, too. Bull was taking the antidotes for the poisons qunari assassins would mostly likely be using. It’d made him a little weak and unsteady at first, but he built up a tolerance, and was prepared for whenever they would attack. His men assured him they wouldn’t let the Qun get him in their clutches again, which warmed Bull’s heart in a sort of bittersweet way, but he wasn’t going to drag his men into yet another one of _his_ fights. It was his to bare this time. He was sure they would come, even if it was just for show, and he’d be ready for it.  
  
After a long night of drinking, there was commotion from outside, shouting and the clanging of weapons. If it hadn’t been the dead of night, it probably would have been drowned out by the sounds of the tavern below. Easily recognizing it as fighting, almost thinking it was Cullen’s men training during daybreak, Bull realized it was much too close for that. He pulled on his things set out on the chair, kept there in case of emergencies, and snatched up his maul on the way out. He’d been waiting for something, ready for footsteps passing too close to his door or a strange shift in guard rotations, anything that could indicate something was off. He’d been hoping it wouldn’t be _this_ , the Qun bypassing him completely to hit him where it hurt.

  
The Chargers stayed in the little shed near the tavern, which had always been convenient for their early morning trainings and late night drinking marathons. Now, it was all chaos, the flash of Dalish’s bow and sparks from blades colliding seen through the windows. He leapt into the door, swiftly taking out a man in guard armor, and finding that four others were laying face-down in their own blood. Krem was bleeding heavily from a shoulder and Grim had a knife wound threateningly close to his neck, but they were in one piece. They’d probably thought that the Chargers would be easy to get a leg up on, after drinking until birds were chirping outside the tavern windows and Cabot was yelling that he’d have to wake up in a few hours to open shop again, but the Qun really hadn’t done their research if they thought that.

  
“You alright?” Bull asked, throat feeling dry.

  
“Yeah,” Stitches panted, wiping someone else’s blood from his fingers, “Not much of a challenge.”

  
“You two, go to the infirmary, have those checked out. Could have had poison on the blade,” Bull pointed sharply to Krem and Grim, who nodded dutifully and headed out the door. They both clapped Bull on the shoulder reassuringly. The others were smiling at him, fond and proud, and Bull nodded in answer. He wasn’t surprised the men had been sent after his boys. Gatt had seemed terribly jealous of the Chargers and of Dorian —

  
“Shit,” Bull spat, sprinting out the door and through the fortress towards where he knew Dorian’s room was. The others must have understood, bare feet following after him on the gray stone floors, echoing eerily against the walls in the too-quiet keep.

  
Smoke was billowing from the small window, now blown out, in Dorian’s room, the door slightly ajar with flickering firelight spilling out. There was a yell and a crash, not in Dorian’s voice, and Bull barged inside. The room was a smoldering mess, Dorian standing in the middle of it with nothing but a pair of thick wool leggings. He was panting, blood on his lips and dagger sunk into his side, unmoving bodies thrown about the room. Bull counted another five in his quick glance around, stepping over one man with his chest ripped out, he edged closer to Dorian.

  
“You’re late,” Dorian wheezed, before he began to stumble and sag.

  
“I got you, big guy,” Bull rumbled reassuringly, catching him carefully before he could fall. Even if it wasn’t exactly how Bull had hoped, it was oddly reassuring to have the warmth of Dorian under his fingers again. The relief only lasted a moment as Dorian flinched in pain. One hand reached up to wipe blood away from his face, brow drawn together as he examined the dagger hilt-deep in Dorian’s side. If there was poison on the blade —

  
“You look well,” Dorian said, breaking Bull out of his daze, and Dorian was _smiling_ at him again. His breathing was wet, a little strained, but his hand was firm against Bull’s chest, “Are you alright?”

  
“Yeah, they went after what I care about the most,” Bull answered, shifting Dorian in his arms so he was pressed carefully against his chest. His breath stuttered in surprise, before he glanced towards the door.

  
“All the Chargers accounted for?” Dorian asked, spotting their shapes hovering outside the door.

  
Bull nodded slightly. As much of a bluster and air of aloofness Dorian put up around him, he deeply cared for his allies and comrades, and it wasn’t a surprise that he was worried for them when he had a blade in his lung.

  
“I’m feeling rather woozy, dear Bull, so I think a trip to the infirmary may be in order,” Dorian grit out, blood between his teeth.

  
“Right,” Bull turned towards the door, the Chargers  parting to let him through. He moved in a brisk jog, careful not to jostle Dorian too much, but feeling the edge of panic in his chest as Dorian’s eyelids drooped slightly, “Talk to me. Let me hear that pretty voice of yours.”

  
Dorian made a noise Bull assumed would have normally been a chuckle, “Flatterer.” Dorian obliged for the rest of the brief trip, recounting something Dagna and Sera were up to, pain edging into his voice more and more with every step. By the time they arrived, mere minutes after they left Dorian’s quarters, the man in his arms was worryingly pale, a sheen of sweat on his brow, full lips trembling minutely. Bull swallowed hard, bursting into the infirmary.

  
There were drapes drawn around the cots, shapes moving behind them, and Bull knew Krem and Grim were tucked away back there. There was a grunt of reply from Grim, but no sound from Krem, and Bull’s stomach was doing flips. He placed Dorian in a cot as he was told, the man tangling his fingers weakly with Bull’s before his grip slacked and the healers ordered him out of the way. Needing to stay useful and busy, feeling like he might fall apart otherwise, Bull hurried off to get all his antidotes as they called on Vivienne and Solas to help work the poison out of the trio’s systems. Both the ‘Vints looked pale and fragile and otherwordly under the green healing glows as he handed his vials over, nearly dropping them at how fragile the both of them looked.

  
“That’s a good lad,” Vivienne said softly, not moving her hands from Dorian’s wound. There was blood on her silken sleep dress, and Bull felt ready to heave up the contents of his stomach, “You’ve done your part, Bull. We’ll take care of them from here.”

  
“Right, ma’am. Yes, ma’am,” Bull ducked away, drawing the curtains closed and taking gulping breathes to keep from passing out then and there. This was _his_ fault, wouldn’t have happened if he’d done things different. There might be more blood on his hands before the night was through.

  
Waiting was awful. Bull felt sick, sitting in a chair a few sizes too-small near the door, worry keeping him from sleeping or eating or moving as the day crept by. Solas had retired to his quarters again, exhausted from the work, Vivienne settling into a cot in the infirmary in case she was needed. Everyone insisted he sleep, Cullen stopping by for some information about how a group of ten assassins could have gotten in, before insisting Bull get some rest. He even offered to sit and wait for news instead, but Bull was stubborn, shooing the man away and keeping his vigil.

  
Adaar showed up late into the night, her team having been preparing to travel back from the Hinterlands as it was. She looked frazzled and muddy, and Bull wondered how long she’d been riding to get here so quickly.

  
“Are they alright?” Adaar asked, and Bull shrugged slightly. Vivienne slid across the floor, almost materializing from between closed curtains.

  
“Asleep, but showing signs of improvement,” Vivienne confirmed. Bull would believe that they were fine once they were awake and not so deathly pale again, and maybe even not then, “Dorian fought the five men in his sleep clothes and only had the one injury. It’s rather impressive, but don’t tell _him_ I said that or we’ll never hear the end of it.”

  
Bull allowed himself a weak chuckle, “Got it, ma’am.”

  
“Well, as much as I would like to sit around and exchange idle chit chat, I would also like to sleep in my own bed for the night,” Vivienne said, giving a slightly bow to the Inquisitor. Bull’s face snapped up, eye widening with worry. Vivienne reached out to touch his chin gently, giving a smile of reassurance, “Cremesius and Dorian will be just fine, and if anything happens, one of the healers will retrieve me post haste. Fear isn’t the best look on you, my dear.”

  
“Right, thanks, Viv,” Bull nodded slightly, willing himself to lose some of the tenseness in his neck and shoulders. Of course, as soon as ma’am was out of sight, he sat stiffly again, staring nervously at the closed curtains.

  
“If Madame de Fer says they’ll be fine, I’m sure they’ll be fine,” Adaar insisted, putting her hand on Bull’s shoulder. Bull grunted, “Want me to sit with you?”

  
Bull blinked, “Nah, you’ve been running yourself ragged. Go get some rest.”

  
“You gonna take your own advice?” Adaar asked. When Bull gave a brief shake of his head, Adaar grabbed an extra chair tucked in the corner, and set it beside the Bull. She settled down into the chair, reaching out to link her much smaller fingers with his calloused ones, and they sat together in worried silence.  
  
A dry cough startled Bull out if his daze. Adaar was slumped against his side, one horn digging into his bicep. He shifted, careful not to wake her, and settled her back down across the pair of chairs pressed close together. She grumbled, shifting, but settling back down to sleep. Quietly, Bull edged his way over to Krem’s cot, recognizing the rough rasp of his voice easily.

  
“Hey,” Bull said, a relieved smile crossing his face seeing his lieutenant staring blearily at the ceiling.

  
“Feels like I was hit by a druffalo,” Krem grunted, hand rising to rub at his still-sore shoulder.

  
“Yeah, but Viv says you’re fine,” Bull rumbled his reassurance as he poured a glass of water and pushed in before Krem’s face, “Drink.”

  
Krem obeyed, throat rough like sandpaper, taking a few long sips. When he was done, Bull set the glass within reach, hand finding its way into Krem’s disheveled locks.

  
“Everyone else alright?” Krem asked, frowning as he tried to remember exactly what happened. He’d been startled out of sleep by _something_ , could blearily remember fighting.

  
“Grim got to sleep in his own bed already, just a knick, all the other boys were fine,” Bull said, and Krem didn’t miss the way his eye flickered briefly towards the next bed.

  
“Yeah? That everyone?”

  
“Dorian hasn’t woken up yet,” Bull breathed out, slow and unsteady. Worried registered on Krem’s face for a moment before he caught his reaction, keeping calm and collected for Bull’s sake.

  
“Hey, you said Viv worked on us? That lady can do anything,” Krem reached out to squeezed Bull’s forearm, “You still have feelings for him.”

  
It hadn’t been a topic they discussed after everything, but Bull supposed it was easy enough to tell if anyone was watching for the signs. Krem was perceptive, and probably caught onto the fact that there hadn’t been anyone else in his bed since Dorian. He dragged a hand down his face.

  
“Yeah.”

  
“Well, suppose it’s good your Tal-Vashoth now.”

  
Bull laughed darkly, “After all the shit that happened, I’m not sure if he’ll want me back.”

  
Krem gave a one-shoulder shrug, keeping his newly recovered one still, “Sorta seems like he’s been out of sorts ever since, too. Gotta take the risk and see, Chief.”

  
“So long as he wakes up.”

  
Krem frowned, patting his hand fondly.

 

\---

  
Adaar was awake again and Krem back on his feet before any sound came from Dorian’s cot. The healers had checked on him a few times, even Vivienne stopping back in to look him over. It was Adaar who went to him before either Bull or a healer processed what was happening, the girl ducking between slightly parted curtains, a healer trailing her. Bull felt glued to the spot, heart thundering and heavy in his chest, head swimming. He was pretty damn sure he loved Dorian, and any confession of that sort after tense months apart could be messy and unwarranted, but he _had_ to let him know. He’d lost him once, back on the Coast, and nearly lost him _again_ because of the Qun. Then, he heard Dorian’s voice, rough from sleep and elfroot, but bright and obviously pleased to see the Inquisitor, and his feet were moving towards the sound. Dorian’s eyes snapped to Bull, Adaar and a healer helping him to prop up. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, his eyes the color of a stormy sky looking soft and fond. Bull stilled, something caught in his throat.

  
“Bull, the healer was just about to check and make sure Dorian was shipshape. You want to help instead?” Adaar asked, offering up her spot holding onto Dorian’s arm gently. She flickered her gaze to Dorian, who didn’t object. Bull nodded slightly, stepping back to give Adaar the room to leave, before moving close to the bed.

  
“Bull,” Dorian said gently as a greeting when he took the spot at Dorian’s side.

  
“Glad you’re back with the living,” Bull answered, hoping his tone revealed much more than what he was saying. From the smile Dorian gave him, it must have been fairly successful. Bull helped to shift Dorian as the healer removed some bandages, revealing the puckered mark against Dorian’s ribs, looking somewhat like a burn from where the poison must have done some work. Bull sucked in a breath, and Dorian’s fingers moved gently against his forearm, the touch feeling electric on his skin. The order was to spend a day in bed, just to be sure, but Dorian was going to be just fine. The healer left them alone, Bull still holding onto his hand, the silence stretching on for a few long moments.

  
“It was very admiral, to declare yourself Tal-Vashoth,” Dorian murmured quietly.

  
Bull shrugged slightly, “A bit late.”

  
“Yes, well, better late then never?” offered Dorian gently, “As you told me once, it’s hard to walk away from everything you knew.”

  
Bull grunted, running his thumb over Dorian’s knuckles. They were as soft as ever, pales spots where all his gold rings usually rested, black paint on his nails slightly chipped from the fight.

  
“Shit, I missed you,” Bull rumbled, forcing himself to meet Dorian’s eyes. He wasn’t completely sure what he’d find there, since Dorian had seemed pleased enough to see Bull, but he knew he’d done some serious hurt.

  
Dorian’s eyes had gone wide for a moment, surprised. That blush Bull used to love to bring to his face with gentle teasing and heated words rose in his cheeks, and Dorian worried at his lip slightly.

  
“I missed you, too,” Dorian admitted with a soft sigh, looking down to their clasped hands. He slowly eased his fingers between Bull’s, still looking apprehensive, “The Storm Coast hurt us both.”

  
“I was stupid. I thought … I thought that if I lost the Qun, I’d lose myself, lose everything and I had it all fucking backwards,” Bull admitted, looking sad and guilty. Being cast out of the Qun hurt, a steady ache in his bones as he though hos disappointed his Tama must be, how everyone back home thought he was a traitor now. Still, it didn’t hurt as much as the ache in his very core at Dorian despising and distrusting him.

  
“It might take me some time to get back to where we were, Bull, but…” Dorian worked around something in his throat, eyes a little wet, “I would very much like you back in my life.”

  
Bull laughed, a deep and happy sound. It was more than he’d been hoping for.

  
“Can I kiss you?” Bull asked.

  
“I suppose so,” Dorian huffed, but he was smiling. Bull leaned in slowly, giving Dorian time to change his mind, before their lips met in a chaste but warm kiss, one of Dorian’s hands tangled in his own, the other rising to cup his cheek, and he knew he’d finally made the right decision.

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't make these losers sad forever. They're IN LOVE. They probably got some shit to work out now, but they're meant to be together. I imagined this Adaar as being young, an older teen or young adult who happened to be a the Conclave as her first assignment as someone's bodyguard or something.
> 
> Title from Sufjan Steven's "Chicago", because it makes me sad.


End file.
